Pharisee
by Kuroi-Yasha
Summary: Innocence does not last forever. AlucardxSeras.


**AN: It's been a long time since I posted something on , and my return is marked by this…**

**Well, no point stalling, I wish you luck.**

**WARNING! **

**This chapter contains intense scenes and depictions of violence, gore and near rape (You'll see what I mean). **

**ONLY FOR MATURE READERS! **

**Side-Note: This story is un-beta'd. If anyone is willing to beta please P.M. me.**

**Disclaimer: I DO _NOT _in any way shape or form own Hellsing. Nor do I make money off this work. Good thing too, otherwise I'd be even poorer...  
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_Pharisee_

**By: Kuroi-Yasha**

Pain.

A simple word, and one that was far too common in her everyday vocabulary for her own liking. Every day revolved around that one simple concept; the act of dealing and receiving pain. Simple as the word was it encompassed so many different meanings and spectrums. Yes, she'd seen so much of _'__**it**__'_ that now to her eyes it appeared in visible colors.

**Blue. **

That one was simple: the color of mental anguish.

**Purple.**

A bit more complex: The color of emotional discontentment.

Were these two similar? Perhaps at one point they might have been, and to many it might be that they are indeed one and the same. But her eyes told her the truth. These two harmless colors were what told her the difference between a particular horrifying memory of death, and the loss of watching a loved one die in front of you. But these people were partially correct for both of these lead back to one simple, universal, concept…

Pain.

_Yellow._

A disturbing one: The color of self inflicted pain.

_Orange._

Interestingly enough: The color of voluntary pain.

Similar? Again yes, but very different. While both indeed led back to suffering, one was the difference between a resplendent blade sinking into a blood-stained flack vest to end what would be a horrible process; and a mother allowing herself to be torn apart by her child in a perverse sense of affection. Simple everyday horrors that her eyes alone seemed to filter for her.

Or perhaps she was the only one who saw the need to indulge these colors? To actively piece together what they meant and ponder why they were? Indeed it would seem like the kind of thing she would do, her moral need to be compassionate to even those who did not need it. Curious it was, that she, an undead being of unholy life was more caring for strangers than even the pope? A soft giggle escaped her, a reflex that was not lost in her transformation into death, un-attachment, madness and pain. A growl from her rear left warned her that her action had not been well received.

Where was she? A snarl, followed by the sound of flesh giving way to sharp incisors.

Ah yes, pain.

_Green._

Very common: The color of pain dealt.

Yes, this color was all too common for her eyes. It seemed that no matter what she did, everything returned to this color at a daily basis. It was this color she saw when limbs went flying. It was this color that she saw when her aim was true and a mindless slave of the unholy fell. A sick bright reminder that she was a harbinger of death and pain. Of sorrow and loss, of hatred and misery. A repulsive reminder of what she had lost in her once plain and mediocre life.

A loud cry left her lips as more flesh was rendered. The essence of her now un-life spraying in front of her eyes briefly.

_**Red.**_

This one was undoubtedly the most complex of all the colors, yet its meaning was simple: Pain received.

Another cry, louder, as a rough velvet hand tightened against her mangled neck.

A throaty chuckle as its companion mercilessly explored her.

A soft whimper, scarlet streams of fluid began to roll.

An enraged bark, followed by an explosion of red in her eyes as her being physically made close acquaintances with the unforgiving make-up of the stone walls. Yes, this one was all too common.

She hated it.

She loved it.

She needed it.

She feared it.

She sought it.

She ran from it.

And it would always find her. Mocking her, whispering condescending taunts. Soothing her, encouraging her with pride.

Physical red this time as she was greeted by a warm stream of plasma that ebbed from her abused lips. A small pool forming as she struggled to gather up her crumpled mass. Another pool of iridescent crimson met her, this one much more frightening, satisfying. Red flashed once more as she met stone again after a pathetic sound of fear escaped her.

Dazed, a flash of blue as she caught a glimpse at herself in the mirror. A broken husk of what she had once been. When had she allowed this to happen to her? Purple quickly followed as the answer came; seventeen years ago. Why was seventeen important? A glint of light caught her attention. A large grey-green mass of steel.

_Walter._

Indeed, the purple and blue mixed. A horrible mauve filled her vision. It had been inevitable, he hadn't been young when she met him. In fact, she hadn't even been born when he was in his prime. Yet her bond with the elderly Englishman had been quick to form. A obscene indigo began to overtake. Had it been then that her descent began? Or had it merely been accelerated?

A soft chuckle reached her ears? For a moment it seemed foreign, then realization came in a flash of orange. Her own voice. It nauseated her. Yes, that night seventeen years ago her fall had been assured. In desperation to escape the purple she had thrown herself directly at the orange. Into the waiting arms of sunset that quickly turned to maroon.

A rush of cold met her skin as she felt her garments being torn from her.

Brown.

Very straight forward: Rage.

One would expect this almost neutral color to be associated with detachment and not the most primal of emotions. Yet it was clear and crystalline as it flashed into green when her arm bled to obsidian and severed the limb that had been holding her. Umber flashed again as a roar left her repaired throat and she lunged again. Flashes of emerald erupting as streams of cherry painted the cold grey earth.

Large gulps of oxygen. An unnecessary action as her lungs no longer required it. Relaxing none the less, as a small rush of none existent breath escaped her. Quickly negated as a mad cackle filled the room.

_Gold._

Fear.

A shriek tore itself from her as powerful vices pinned her limbs. Desperate unrestrained attempts at freedom amounted to nothing more than small squirms to those steel arms. A different cry escaped her as a wet velvety appendage met her warm orifice.

_**Pink.**_

Pleasure.

Another moan left her as once violent hands began to caress her gently. It always started like this. The gentle caresses, the soft murmuring, sweet passion filled kisses. She knew this, and even knowing she couldn't stop her body from reacting favorably. Her body curved into his, her arms reaching behind his neck in an attempt to hold him closer to her.

She'd always been a romantic. Even when she was younger she'd always hung onto the dream of a prince charming or a white knight. She never showed it outwardly though, and not until she'd left the safety of the orphanage had she allowed those thoughts to resurface. Granted, there was never much time to show this side of her to anyone. She'd been fifteen when she was allowed to leave the care of the church and had been allowed into the academy early as a special favor to her father.

'_Father'._

That brought back many memories, ones that she'd rather forget. Not all of them were bad, but the simple act of remembering the good always brought back the bad. And the bad seemed to always outshine her good memories. Though in that regard it had been the memory of her family's brutal murder and her mother's rape that had driven her to who she would become. The youngest female to ever join the prestige of D-11.

That brought another wave of memories. Happy and frustrating times as she struggled to get herself acknowledged by an otherwise exclusive male group. None had ever been cruel to her, for that she had always been grateful. However the condescending tones, the obvious sexist remarks, and even the 'accidental' grope had not been so easily forgiven. Despite this, she eventually made her presence known and was finally accepted by the squad, and then given her name _"Kitten". _That had always been a sore spot for her. Despite her ability to shoot, reason and negotiate, she was reluctant to admit that when the time came she was unable to pull the trigger. It wasn't until the second raid on Hellsing that she'd finally accepted who she was and could kill anyone who stood in her way. The loss of Pip had been partially responsible for this…

_Pip Bernadotte_

She couldn't really lie to herself and say that she hadn't been at least partially attracted to the eye-patch wearing, smooth talking, charismatic Captain of the Wild Geese. She would admit that while he was not quite on the level of her Master, she indeed found the dark cherry-haired Frenchman attractive. When not surrounded by his men, the mercenary had been unrelenting of his courtship of her. It had been very flattering to have someone of his level try and just coax a simple date from her. She knew that he regularly went to small pubs and bars with the rest of his Geese, and knew if he simply wanted action he could quite easily obtain it with a couple of Euros'. Perhaps that was why he had been attracted to her, she was certainly not the average girl being undead and all. "The thrill of the chase?" was a phrase that quickly came to mind whenever he would flirt with her.

Whether it was with his men, or without it Pip Bernadotte had always been one to lavish attention on her.

And she had loved it.

She'd never been a haughty girl. She had never been one to flaunt her generous proportions that made many women envious and men drool. This was all simply because she had found most men to be simple brutes, interested more in her large chest than her intelligence. They would admire her curvy hips and slim waist, and disregard her wit and ingenuity. Indeed for a time she'd begun to believe that she might have been _"Different" _if you caught the drift. This had all been negated when she met Master.

Dark obsidian locks that reached past his knees. A sharp facial structure that issued both power and safety. A tall stature that would make most men seem gangly instead gave him an imposing figure. Indeed when she had first seen him, despite the gravity of the situation, she could not deny that a bond of attraction had been formed. But it had been his eyes, those deep pools of vibrant ruby that had entranced her. Those dark orbs that instilled fear, panic, uncertainty, and lust.

Yes, she'd always wanted him. Wanted him in more than just a physical sense. She wanted to be acknowledged, accepted, seen as an equal. And perhaps, someday maybe even loved by him.

_Love._

She almost spat that word now. To associate that word with her Master, no with that devil Alucard was a thought that was now beyond even idiotic optimism. Indeed, for almost as if he could still read her mind he quickly disregarded all kindness and savagely entered her unprepared core.

A sharp cry of anguish left her. A satisfied grunt left him. Bright ginger filled her as he continued his abuse of her sacred opening. Disgust filled her as she found herself enjoying his abuse. It was always like this. He'd lower her guard, tease her, make her feel safe. And then he would take what he wanted without care or regard for her.

And she loved it.

Another sick wave of pleasure filled her as she was pressed into the wall. Her generous breasts scarping against the cold stone as he rode her, the wet slaps of flesh against flesh filled the air as her moans of pleasure joined in to make a serenade of lewd carnal pleasure. This was what she had wanted, to be acknowledged by him when he had offered her his blood once again and given her freedom. She had wanted this when he accepted her as a 'No-Life Queen'. And this is what she had wanted when she had given her being to him, followed by that four letter word of hypocrisy.

Her cries of ecstasy increased as she was pulled into him, her body curving into him despite the difference of stature. As he continued to enter her she felt his neck begin to slide against her head on a downward path to her neck. Her arousal spiked as she felt what was happening. The act of feeding was already an act that brought about intense levels of pleasure only on level by those achieved through asphyxiation. That added into the act of already intense pleasure led to a complete overload of the senses. And that is exactly what happened when his fangs sunk into her tender flesh.

To say that she orgasm-ed would be a great understatement. Her world literally was ripped apart in front of her as her body began an attempt to destroy itself from the intensity of her pleasure. Her spasms were chaotic and vicious as all control left her and her already wet core began to overflow with the combination of her own fluids and the seed of her _'lover'_.

She collapsed against the wall, and somehow managed to land on her re-instated coffin bed. She was inwardly grateful for this, for there had been times when her exhausted body had fallen to the floor and been left laying there for hours at a time as anguish usually filled her after his departure. He was always like that. Cold, detached, and mercilessly cruel. There was no cuddling, no signs of affection nor a even a simple glance in her direction. He'd simply vanish, his clothing reappearing by his own will. What he did afterwords she did not know. She'd like to think, though hope would be a far closer wording really, that he'd spend the rest of the night in regret of what he did.

Her cackling reached her ears again at her own thoughts. Almost crazed laughter left her as fresh trails of ruby trailed from her rose-colored orbs. Her body did not shake or quiver, no sob escaped her and only laughter continued to wrack her body. Truly she was broken, for she felt no hatred. There was only a pathetic form of longing that resonated deep within her core. A longing to be held, to be loved; who was she kidding at this point she would have settled with a pat on the head and a 'Good job'.

That did it. Her laughter was shifted into a shriek as all her sorrow broke forth. Violent cries of incomprehensible words left her as she pulled closer into herself, her knees touching her forehead as unrestrained convulsions took their toll on her small frame.

"Seras."

Her body froze instantly. Why was his voice back? No, she realized in horror, he'd never left the room to begin with. Repetition had taken its reward after instilling itself into her and had left her in this situation. What would he say? A sliver of fear imbedded itself into her, what would he do? He hated weakness, that was why he claimed to be harsh with her. What would his reaction to this be?

"Integra calls for us."

Of coarse, Sir Integral Fairbrook Wingates Hellsing, director and head of Hellsing. A bitter laugh left her lips as she slowly rose to her feet. What other reason would he have to stay in her room after the deed was complete anyways? Yes, love was a stupid concept when it came to Alucard she thought to herself as the shadows formed a new temporary attire for her. No words left her as she passed him, and he made no movement to stop her or even made any acknowledgment of her. After all what need did he have to say anything? She gave him her heart, but he'd never claimed to have one to return.

"Foolish girl…"

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**AN: Yeah…..how many of you want me dead now?**

**AN No. 2: So, maybe a little explanation? I wrote this story during one of my many depressed states. I was just laying around, when suddenly I saw my wall scroll of Seras and I thought: **_'What would Seras be like if she was in a relationship with Alucard?' _**Essentially this is what happened. **

_**Why is Alucard cruel**_**?**

**I can't imagine someone as mentally questionable as Alucard to be a caring affectionate lover. Maybe a little at times, but after being alive for so long. Enslaved, forced to kill his own kind (True Nosferatu, not FREAKS). And losing the only woman he ever cared about has to take quite a toll on ANYONE'S mental stability and ability to feel. Did I exaggerate? Maybe. Do I regret it? No.**

_**Why is Seras taking so much abuse lying down?**_

**Ever hear of **_'Love makes you do stupid things?' _**Not entirely the case here some might say, but trust me, as a man who's been in love, you tend to take some really shitty things from your partner if the relationship isn't healthy. Physically or emotionally.**

**So, now that you have a small explanation, I'd love to have some feedback. I WILL BE MAKING A SEQUEL! But, not quite sure when. So, if you liked this story (Kami-sama help you) I would suggest adding me as an Author Alert. It will be an entirely different One-shot.**

**So cold….any and all flames will be used to fuel my fireplace, along with my baby pictures and High School Diploma. HURRAH UNDER-ACHIEVING!**

_**Pharisee**_ (Pha-ri-see)

_n._

Pharisee A member of an ancient Jewish sect that emphasized strict interpretation and observance of the Mosaic law in both its oral and written form. A hypocritically self-righteous person. 


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